


Dream a Little Dream of Me

by speccygeekgrrl



Series: MST3K Alternate Universes [3]
Category: Mystery Science Theater 3000
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Shadowhunter Chronicles Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Dreams, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11660472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speccygeekgrrl/pseuds/speccygeekgrrl
Summary: Max has vivid, epic dreams. These are some of those dreams.





	1. Dream: Secret Agents

**Author's Note:**

> Oh lord. So I'm a slut for alternate universe fic, and it's my stated headcanon for Max that he has vivid dreams which are highly influenced by the media he consumes. So... my lack of self-control has dictated that I need to write some of these dreams, which are all basically just AU fics inspired by things I think Max has seen or read. First up, because I just saw Atomic Blonde: secret agents!

She walked into his office without knocking. If he hadn't been expecting her, he never would have known to look up from his computer, she came in so silently. But he was, and he did, and he found himself faced with a woman whose hair was as red as her hands should have been from all the blood she'd spilled.

"Agent Forrester, I presume," he said, and she smirked at him.

"Agent K, please. Agent Forrester is my father."

"Just the initial?"

"That's my preference."

"Fair enough," he said, and motioned at the seat across from his desk. "I'm Max."

"I know who you are," she said, still smirking. "I heard from the last agent you handled. My condolences, by the way." He felt the color drain from his face, and managed a nod. "He said you were easy to work with."

"Is that my reputation?" 

"The pertinent part of it, anyways," she said, and the color flooded back into his face. "Oh, you're too easy. No wonder you're not in the field."

"I never wanted to be in the field," he said, looking back at his computer screen in an attempt to buy his composure back. He wasn't usually so easy to fluster, but something about her got under his skin immediately. "I don't have the stomach for it."

"You've got the stomach for something," she said archly, and he sighed.

"If you want to get a rise out of me, and apparently you do, it's only fair to warn you that going after my appearance won't do it," he said. "Just to spare us both the waste of time."

"Fair enough," she said, and the smirk softened slightly. "I won't work with someone fragile."

"I'm not fragile," he said. "And I'm not as soft as I look. I may not be a field agent, but that doesn't mean I'm not competent."

"Yes, he said that, too." She steepled her hands and leaned forward slightly. "So. Max. Shall we begin?"

"How much do you know about Damascus?"

"I know that the best place to get a cup of tea and classified information got bombed eight days ago, much to my regret," she said. "I know that no one in their right mind goes in and very few with their right minds remaining are coming out."

"All true," he said, and swiveled his computer monitor to face her. "And how much do you know about him?"

"I know that he's the reason I had to offer my condolences."

"You're better informed than I expected."

"Are you sending me in for revenge, or is there an actual strategic point behind this?"

"I'm sending you in because your condolences, while appreciated, can't finish what Agent Nelson left undone," he said, and turned his monitor back around. "Unfortunately, in this particular game of cat and mouse, we were on the side of the mouse. I've heard you're quite catty, though."

"Is that my reputation?" she asked, the smirk making a reappearance. He pursed his lips, looking her up and down, and lifted one shoulder.

"Part of the pertinent part of it, anyways," he said. "Also that you tend to be overenthusiastic in cleaning up behind yourself. But effective enough to be forgiven for your enthusiasm."

"It's not a good mission unless I get to commit arson," she said. "And there are usually enough bodies to justify the arson."

"We'd prefer you not torch this particular corpse," he said dryly. "Although torturing him before he's a corpse is strongly encouraged."

"That's a fair tradeoff. Is the torture in pursuit of something?"

"My own satisfaction," Max said, and she grinned. "Whatever information you glean beyond the mission objective is welcome. But I just really want the bastard to suffer for what he did to Nelson."

"Do you have enough of a stomach for photographic proof?"

"I'd be sorely disappointed if you didn't provide it."

"I've been told I have a good eye for composing a shot."

"I've heard that applies to multiple kinds of shot." She laughed, and he had to look away. It wasn't fair for someone that lethal to be that disarmingly lovely. That was part of what made her so effective, he knew, but he'd always been a sucker for a pretty face and the agency had a nasty habit of assigning him agents he couldn't stay detached from. Nelson had been a good man, a genuinely good one, rare in their line of work. Forrester-- K, he corrected himself mentally-- was not a genuinely good person, was barely any kind of good person, but she was unfailingly effective, and that was the kind of person this mission needed.

"Perhaps if you're lucky you'll get to experience all of my non-lethal types of shot," she said playfully, and he bit the inside of his cheek and slid a manila folder across the desk.

"I don't drink," he lied, and she smirked again. "Look over the file. Your plane is wheels up in two hours."

"Are we in a rush?"

"Intel has it that he's leaving Damascus in thirty-six hours."

"So that's a yes." She picked up the file but didn't open it. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Answering your questions is part of my job description."

"A personal question."

"I'll allow it."

"You're second-generation agency," she said, and that wasn't a question. "Did you know our fathers worked together?"

"Of course I know," Max said. 

"Do you blame my dad for what happened to yours?" He met her gaze, level and dispassionate.

"What happened to my father was mostly his own fault." She arched a brow. "What wasn't his fault was your father's fault. But it was mostly his own fault."

"So you won't hold it against me," she said, and it wasn't a question, again.

"If it happens to me, I'll blame you. But if it happens to me, I'll only blame you for a second before it won't matter what I think any more."

"I won't let it happen to you."

"I don't think you're the one who gets to decide that, but I appreciate the sentiment," he said, and she smirked and opened the file and began to read it.

It hadn't been Agent Forrester's fault that Max's father had been a lovesick fool. Frank had committed the cardinal sin of caring too much about the agent he handled. It had gotten him killed. Max liked to think that he could learn from his father's mistakes without committing them himself. The last thing he could afford to do was lose his heart to a trained killer. He couldn't afford to lose his heart, full stop, but especially not to a lethal and beautiful redhead, especially not to the daughter of the man who'd turned out to be a coward when the dice were cast for the person who needed him the most.

He wondered, idly, if they'd work together long enough for her to be there if he needed her to save his life. He wondered how long "long enough" would be. He wondered if he was dumber than he thought he was. He had a sinking feeling that he probably was.


	2. Dream: Shadowhunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max reads too much YA fantasy. These books are like 800 pages long but he still finishes each one in two days. Of course, his subconscious casts him as a badass... and of course, it casts Kinga as something even more powerful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no shame in being obsessed with the Shadowhunter books by Cassandra Clare. (real talk, her career trajectory is Life Goals. go from being the first person to write Draco Malfoy in leather pants to a bestselling YA fantasy author? god, I wish) But my headcanon for Max is that he's a hopeless romantic so these books are like catnip to him what with all the star-crossed romance. (Especially the Dark Artifices series!) My librarian crusade is fighting the stigma against adults reading YA novels. 
> 
> Anyways... I don't know how niche this is or whether anyone at all who reads MST3K fic is familiar with this series, but I was compelled to write it for my own amusement and I hope it's enjoyable even if you aren't familiar with the universe.

Max didn't look like a Shadowhunter. Supposedly angelic blood bred true, but he took far more after his mundane father than his Shadowhunter mother. Still, for all he didn't look like one, he was one. No one expected his strength underneath the layer of softness, and most people took his shyness for stupidity when really he just wasn't the type to say what was on his mind. He looked ungainly, but moved with the grace and confidence of a fully trained Shadowhunter. For all his competence, he still wasn't respected much by the rest of the Clave, and he more or less kept to himself unless the Institute called on him directly. It wasn't like Minneapolis was a hotbed of demon activity anyways. The Downworlders weren't much trouble either: the local werewolves were well behaved, the vampires tended to get rowdy during the winter but not so much during the summer, and Max occasionally got lunch with the only two warlocks who hadn't moved to larger cities. It was at one of those lunches that Synthia mentioned that there would be a Shadow Market in Boom Island Park to mark the summer solstice.

"You might find the kitten of your dreams there," she said teasingly. "No better place to find a domestic shadowcat than a Shadow Market."

"No one wants a Shadowhunter at a Shadow Market," Max pointed out, and she scoffed. 

"You're not a dick like the rest of them. You'll be fine. Cover your Marks and you look practically mundane anyways." He frowned, and she patted his hand. "No offense."

"I'm offended anyways," he said.

"I'm serious about the shadowcats though. Come take a look, what's the worst that could happen?"

"There are so many possible answers to that question that end in corpses."

"So come unarmed."

"And then all the answers end with _my_ corpse? No thanks." She huffed and changed the subject, but her suggestion stayed with him for the rest of the day.

....damn it, he _really_ wanted a shadowcat. His mother had one when he was a kid, but it had run off after her death, only loyal to her. He went back and forth all day about whether he should go or not, but inevitably found himself at the entrance of the park just before sundown. He wasn't unarmed, but very lightly armed compared to going on patrol. He'd taken Synthia's advice about covering his Marks, but that made him conspicuous still on the warmest night of the year yet. Not like most of these people didn't know his face already, but he tried to stay on good terms with Downworlders, not as haughty as most Shadowhunters were.

The Market proper was on the island, but the open park near the bridge had likewise been transformed, lights strung up and a band playing, a couple dozen folks of all Downworlder persuasions dancing in the field. Max slowed down as he passed, then paused by a tree to watch the dancers in motion, picking out the ones he knew, wondering who the rest were. One couple came to a stop at the edge of the dancing, and the woman he didn't know slapped a werewolf he did know in the face and strode away from him. She started walking toward the bridge, then caught sight of Max and changed direction. He straightened up from where he'd been leaning on the tree when he realized she was coming straight for him. 

"No one should merely watch tonight," she said, and he bit his lip uncertainly. She was lovely, blood-red hair falling about her shoulders, scarlet lips pursed in amusement. Her dress was made from oak leaves edged with violets at neckline and hem. He hesitated, and she held a hand out to him. "Come. Dance with me."

"I don't dance," he said, and she shook her head once.

"You will dance with me," not a request any more, thorns in her voice. Her hair scattered with the imperious shake of her head, and he caught sight of the pointed tips of her pale ears.

Faerie. Gentry faerie, from the looks of her, though he couldn't be sure she wasn't glamoured. He should turn around and go home. This was no place for Shadowhunters. He found his hand reaching out without him deciding to extend it. She smiled as she curled her fingers around his, then tilted his hand and arched her brows at the sight of his Voyance rune.

"You don't have the look of the Nephilim," she said curiously. "I wonder if you have the moves of one." 

"You'll find out," he said with a smile, and she shook her head.

"I sincerely hope not."

"We do have moves besides lethal ones."

"But do you have any of use at a revel?" She tugged his hand and he came along willingly, letting her guide him along the edge of the dancing until she turned to face him. "Don't let me down."

He hadn't been lying. He didn't dance. No one ever wanted to dance with him. But he was observant and the dance wasn't that complicated. She moved so lightly that he doubted whether the grass bent beneath her feet, but when the dance called for him to lift her by her waist she was as solid and real as he was. He felt like she was judging him the entire time, but when the song came to an end she nodded approvingly.

"Not bad for a mortal," she said. "Come, talk with me a while." Again, she took him by the hand, and again, he followed her willingly. She lead him back to the tree he'd been standing under and took a step back, looking him up and down measuringly. "Who are you, Shadowhunter who doesn't look the part?"

"My name is Max," he said. Surely it couldn't hurt to give only part of his name to a faerie. He wasn't dumb enough to give her a whole name, but a fragment of his first name couldn't be so dangerous. "And you are...?"

"You may call me Kinga." 

"Kinga? Doesn't sound like a fey name to me." She scowled.

"Mock me at your peril, Nephilim."

"I'm not mocking you at all. Just curious how one of the Fair Folk ended up with a Hungarian name." She arched a brow at him.

"As if I would give you my true name? You take me for a fool."

"Oh, for-- no. I don't think you're a fool. I'm trying to make conversation but I'm very bad at it. I mean, I'm bad at it generally, but you're lovely and I'm a bit lost as to why you're even talking to me."

"You looked lost before I ever approached you," she said with a smile. "I like the lost ones. It's easy to mislead those who know not where they're going to begin with."

"I'm not that easily misled," he protested, and her smile widened. "And I'm not lost. I came here for a reason."

"Oh?" Her head tilted slightly. "Are you here to spy on our revel? You were watching so intently."

"I'm here for the Shadow Market. I got sidetracked by the dancing."

"And what could you want from a Shadow Market?"

"You'll laugh," he said, and she arched her brows at him. "I'm here to buy a pet. A shadowcat."

"A shadowcat," she echoed, and she did let out a bright mocking peal of laughter. "How arrogant, to buy the Cait Sidhe like a common moggy. How lazy, too. Their loyalty can't be bought, you know. You'd keep a faerie cat as a captive for your own amusement."

"A Cait Sidhe?" His eyes widened. "I didn't know shadowcats were fey. I thought they were demonic."

"More foolish you, then, to seek to bring one into your home."

"My mother had one when I was a boy," he said. "They're not dangerous if they're kept properly."

"Oh, did she," Kinga said. "And she didn't tell you how she got it?"

"She had it before I was born..."

"Your mother walked the Seelie Lands before you were born, then," she said.

"Not long before I was born," he added, and she touched a finger to her lips, regarding him thoughtfully.

"That explains it," she said. "You're unremarkable--"

"Hey!"

"--but Faerie leaves its mark on the unborn," she finished. "I wonder how long she walked in my forests to draw my eye to you these decades hence."

" _Your_ forests," he repeated, and she smirked.

"I'm known as Kinga Forester," she said. "I tend the woodlands for my mother the Queen. I could get you a shadowcat for much less than the Market would ask."

"I'm not dumb enough to make a deal with a faerie," Max said. " _Especially_ not faerie royalty. No, thank you."

"Your mother," she said, reaching up to turn his face slightly and study his profile. "You don't favor her?"

"She said I'm a carbon copy of my father."

"Describe her for me."

"A little taller than I am. Blonde hair, blue eyes. She usually had this little smirk, like she knew something everyone else didn't."

"Pearl," Kinga said, and Max blinked.

"Yes."

"Your mother made a deal with a faerie," she said. "Faerie royalty, actually."

"You, actually?" She nodded, a pleased smile bending her lips. "Please don't tell me she bargained her firstborn," Max said with a sigh, and Kinga laughed again.

"That would have been _delightful_. No, what she bargained with was... more ephemeral than that. The shadowcat was a, mm, a token of favor, let's say. It returned to me upon her death."

"I don't want to know the details, do I." It wasn't a question. She smirked and didn't say anything. "Does Faerie really leave a mark on the unborn, or are you trying to creep me out?"

"You should know better," she said with a frown. "I can't speak an untruth."

"No, but you can certainly embellish. What mark?"

"Give me your hand." He hesitated a second, and she rolled her eyes. "I won't hurt you."

"I'm not afraid you'll hurt me." She wiggled her fingers impatiently, and he took her hand. She brushed her thumb over his Voyance mark again and smiled, pulling him along in the opposite direction of the bridge, back to a thicket of trees on a hill. She lead him around the hill until the lights of the revel were lost to them, but between the moonlight and his Night Vision mark he was fine. 

"Look there," she said, and pointed. "What do you see?"

"A door," he said, brow furrowed. "A wooden door."

"See? You seek to return where you knew not you'd been."

"I'm not following you into Faerie," he said firmly. "I'm not completely insane."

"Yet," she said with a smirk. "Are you sure you won't deal with me? I can make real dreams you don't even remember having had."

"Look... Kinga... this has been... weird on levels I had no idea my life could achieve," he said, letting go of her hand. "But I have no desire to lose god only knows how much time going under the hill with a Seelie princess who already knows too much about my family."

"You have no idea how much I know about your family... Maximilian Ashdown," she said, grinning when he took two quick steps back from her. "She didn't bargain her firstborn, no. But your mother was overfond of me. And I made her a promise."

"What promise?" He should run. He knew he should run. He should run and never come back to this park again. But he didn't. Kinga closed the distance between them again and leaned in until all he could smell was violets.

"I promised her that her son would know the favor of Faerie," she whispered, and kissed his cheek. "Open the door, Max. It's not a deal to accept a gift freely given."

All he could think was, _I'm a complete fool,_ but he did as she told him, slowly swinging the door open and peering through to find... what looked like a bedroom, and a shadowcat curled up asleep at the foot of a wooden bed. She made a shushing noise beside him, and the cat's ears perked up a moment before luminous green eyes opened. The cat chirruped and came to twine itself around Max's ankles, and he reached down to pet it. "Is this..."

"Your mother's shadowcat," she said. "A sign of my good will toward you. But there is one condition..." He held his breath and looked up at her, and she smiled slightly. "I'd like to come visit him once in a while."

"Are you trying to finagle an invite to my house?"

"It would be very rude of you to make me stand on the porch."

"You're just trying to get a claw in to get me to trip up and bargain with you." The cat pawed at his leg, and he leaned down to pick it up. She scratched it under its chin.

"So suspicious. I already have your true name... if I wanted to leverage you, I've got more than enough to do it already. I'm not trying to trip you up. I merely wish to keep my promise to your mother." He studied her for a moment, then sighed.

"Yeah, okay. Just don't show up out of the blue."

"I can wait to be invited. Don't make me wait too long, though." She toyed with the hem of her dress for a moment, then held out a single violet to him. "Pluck the petals and I'll come."

"Without even being touched? Gosh, you're easy." She gave him a sharp-edged smile as he took the flower.

"You might yet find out how easy I'm not," she purred, and walked through the door. "Good night, Max. I hope I'll see you soon."

"Good night," he echoed, watching the door swing shut and disappear into the hillside. "Well... that was fucking weird," he murmured to the cat, walking back around the hill and into the light. "What do you think, Cole, time to go home?" The cat chirruped again and kneaded against his chest, and Max shook his head slightly as he walked to his car, not sure what the repercussions of this night would be but sure that they were coming sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just putting this out there... if you have any suggestions for things you'd like Max to dream about, I'm 100% open to ideas! Heck, even if you want me to write something completely unrelated to this, drop me a line. I used to be all about taking requests back when fandom lived on LiveJournal and I miss those days. I'm a shameless multishipper so even if it isn't Kinga/Max toss your ideas at me!


End file.
